One Word, Eight Letters
by beesandjam13
Summary: Once Sherlock finds some place comfy, there's no waking him.


I really don't know where the once came from or why. I just know that the stress of finals/midterms is over and I've had this picture as a tab on chrome for months now. Based off of shortshenanigan's johnlock doodle which can be found here: post/61353603376/so-i-did-a-little-stress-relief-doodle-earlier

* * *

There hadn't been a great deal of sleeping in 221B recently. At least for Sherlock there wasn't. Their last 'big' case (as Sherlock referred to it—he'd deemed that one as a seven and a half) was days ago. He'd run out of experiments and ways to poison John a while back. The mind always seemed to be funny, he noticed, never really remembering anything the same way…or maybe that's because Sherlock poisoned him some time on Sunday and he didn't wake until midday Tuesday. He also burnt through three dinner plates, shot a hole at their microwave _again_, and practically threatened to hack into John's blog once more because _honestly it really was easy, John. Your password, although containing a series of numbers, isn't too difficult. Sentiment. Always._

He was fumbling his way around the flat now as John scribbled at the crossword that accompanied the daily. Throughout his life with Sherlock he seemed to have acquired the assets that allowed him to put his friend on silent, just like Sherlock had Mrs. H on a semi-permanent mute. Of course John's snubbing only lasted a few hours when Sherlock was really anxious, but he didn't let the bushy-haired detective know that. Though, regarding that brain of his, he probably already did. There was no use ever with him.

John's mind wandered away from his crossword because he couldn't think of a word eight letters long with two 'P's in it. He considered shouting down to Mrs. Hudson to see if she had an idea, but something prevented him from thinking further on the subject.

Sherlock, with his wild curls and sickly sea green eyes, bent over the back of John's armchair to scoff at his blogger's activity. "A crossword, John? Really? I had more faith in you," he muttered, sliding his way around the chair and hovering near John's good shoulder.

John's eyes followed him, but his head stayed put. He flashed a brief, inexpressive smile, and said, "I do this every Sunday…you must have deleted it."

Sherlock hummed his response through pursed lips and fell over the arm of the chair. Christ, could that man forget about personal space when he was skittish or sleep deprived. In this case, sadly, it was both. John had to lift his paper and pen over his head so Sherlock could burrow against his chest. His legs were too long to match John's, thus causing them to spiral out and perch from the ground like trees grown crooked. Once the violinist was settled, cheek flat against the nape of John's neck—probably counting the doctor's heartbeats—John brought his hands back down and rested his paper on Sherlock's back. He had to admit it, even if some of his scraggily curls got in the way of the bottom of the page, Sherlock _did_ make a decent surface for writing. And he never flinched when John scribbled down another word (he'd temporarily forgotten about the eight letter one), so the doctor was only led to assume that the action didn't affect Sherlock in the slightest.

John didn't really notice the slowing of breaths and the small, human noises that came with them every now and then as he worked. It was when John had only two empty boxes left that he looked at the pile of Sherlock in his arms that he noticed—the man had fallen asleep. Right then and there.

John groaned, but he couldn't suppress a grin that violated his thin lips and stretched them back wide. This was the first time the poor man had slept in days. It would be stupid of him to ruin it and wake Sherlock.

John sat and pondered the last questions on his crossword puzzle for a few more minutes. Eventually he was just down to the one, that damned eight-lettered nightmare, and he could only sigh. What was it? How could this be so bleeding difficult?

As if for inspiration, he glanced back down to Sherlock and ran his hand through the violinist's curls. No matter how much he protested while awake, Sherlock's hair really _was_ soft. Pity John wasn't allowed to do this while the detective was conscious.

In his arms, Sherlock shifted slightly. John gave him a puzzling look. He couldn't quite fathom why exactly Sherlock preferred his body to laze on. John was sure it couldn't be that comfortable. He wasn't made to be slept on. Sherlock confused him—with his legs strewn off John's, one arm tucked behind John's back, and the other clenched to the arm of the chair. Even his nose was squished into the neckline of John's striped jumper.

John sighed into the dead weight and propped his chin atop a mess of Sherlock's curls

Eight letters…two 'P's…Eight letters…two 'P's.

He started mumbling it quietly as his gaze slid from Sherlock's chair ahead of him to his own and back again. If he was going to be stuck here with nothing but a pile of detective, a pen, and his daily he might as well keep himself entertained. For as long as possible, that is.

Oh, Christ. Why hadn't he'd known. It was all too simple.

John scribbled down 'opposite' just as Mrs. Hudson chirped a "Yoo-who!" and opened the door. She had a tendency to walk in at the most unexpected times. Without permission, that is. John was lucky they'd told her about their…erm…_state_ a few months back or else she would have a heart attack at what she saw now. "Oh," she said more quietly in her grandmother tone, "Sorry, dear. Just needed to pop up and see if you had any chamomile I could borrow."

John smiled and tossed his paper and pen on the ground with a dull thud. "Right ahead," he responded welcomingly with a motion to the kitchen, but she already knew where it was.

Mrs. Hudson wasn't very quiet with her chores. And, honestly, she never was. Sherlock's eyes opened. And other than a simple flick of the lids, he didn't move any further. John had to hold back a laugh when he felt the buzz of a chuckle humming up onto his collarbone.

"Something wrong in there?" Mrs. Hudson twittered as she finished. Before she left, while standing in the doorway, she added, "He hasn't slept in awhile, has he? Make sure he gets some rest, John. It'll do some good."

"Will do, Mrs. Hudson."

Once the flat was rid of any more landladies, Sherlock only moved his head to a more comforting position. He pushed his lips together before over pronouncing, "An hour of sleep has a more drastic effect when a prior insomnia is provoked."

John's nose twitched. "How can you possibly be scientific immediately after waking?"

"It's in my blood," Sherlock said with an exhausted slur. No matter what he thought, John could tell Sherlock still needed time to rest and he wasn't going to get it without John's supervision. The doctor's plan to stop by the pub with Greg later would have to wait. Maybe the D.I. would be free on Friday night for some pints. At least that was what John hoped for. Unless there was a case then, in which circumstance both men would be occupied, but they both should be able—

"You must be uncomfortable," Sherlock said, his words interjecting their way slyly into John's mind.

"You're getting sleep," John responded calmly. He wasn't really thinking, but his fingers found their way back into the forest growing from Sherlock's head. If he noticed it, Sherlock didn't mention anything. "Doesn't matter if I'm not comfortable. You haven't slept in days. It's all I can ask at this point."

Sherlock closed his eyes and buried his head in the spot between John's shoulder and his neck. He'd always been fond of that one. "You were going out later with Jeff. Falling asleep again like this would only interrupt," Sherlock added.

"It's Greg, Sherlock, and that doesn't matter anymore. We can reschedule. You, on the other hand, cannot be postponed. Sleep is a necessity and I prescribe you at least nine hours of it. Doctor's orders."

Sherlock sighed and stumbled his way off his personal chair made pristinely of flesh. He began his sprawling walk to the bedroom while John followed quickly behind.

"I never liked doctors as a child," Sherlock told John once they were under the covers.

John frowned, ran his hands through Sherlock's hair, and pressed his lips to the violinist's forehead. "You're not a child anymore."

* * *

_For the people who missed it, the word was "opposite". ;)_


End file.
